


For you, My Dear

by andshetoldmetoleave



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Allies, Axis - Freeform, Historical!fic, M/M, WW2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andshetoldmetoleave/pseuds/andshetoldmetoleave
Summary: A war, six years and two nations trying to figure out if they want to live in the past or walk toward a future it may or may not be the best for both of them. WWII through the eyes of America and England, as nations and people, from Pearl Harbor to Victory day over Japan.Warning: Mentions of war and war crimes, past Japan/England used for historical relevance.





	1. Chapter 1

_  (These memories of you are getting in the way) _

**_ 01. _ **

It was just another dreadful day in Chequers when it happened.

_ 'It',  _ England thought a bit morosely, because calling things, people, catastrophes by their names gave them power, made them real, made them matter; he believed in the power that names held, magic was based on the principle of carefully picked words said with enough property and if that didn't define what a name was, then the world was mad. So, naming things will control them but also gave them life, and it was something that an experienced necromancer like him would never do, being faced with the enemy. 

But this was a war that had nothing to do with magic.

Just torn flesh and bone and an upstart that barely knew how to wipe his own nose, much less how to stop his own people from choosing a sociopath as their leader.

Not that he had much moral ground to discuss crazy leaders and their decisions.

Oh, how he missed Beth sometimes.

Her father? Not that much.

It was just another broadcast too, Winston was on edge all this supposed 'relaxing' weekend, but usually listening to the BBC would do the trick to get him in a less tense mood; for England though, it was like war had become more complex and more unavoidable, as he being able to listen about it without having to move from their countryside retreat was both useful and terrifying on its own right. 

Their guests, the American ambassador and the American envoy were there too, both of them looking weary and expectant of the news; there was nothing relevant on them after all, the voice of the host announcing communiques and domestic news in the same monotone, detached tone. 

Then...

England went pale, suddenly he felt like he was underwater, drowning; the voices around him, the shouts were all muffled, everything moved both too fast and too slow around him and he would have laughed, if it wasn't for the fact that he realized he was having a panic attack. He refused to look shaken, so he took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the table as inconspicuously as he could; there was no way he would let his composure slip because there was a deliberate, back stabbing attack on American soil.

"It is true." He caught a Valet -Swayers- saying as he rushed toward the Prime Minister. "We heard it ourselves. The Japaneses attacked the Americans."

England closed his eyes, clenching his fists; in hindsight, it shouldn't be as shocking as it was. 

Winant had informed them, that the day before the President was handed a belligerent message from the Japanese Government at their embassy in Washington; Roosevelt, as well as the rest of the British Empire, were already waiting for an attack on any coast of the pacific. Thompson told England that he put on alert all the colonies that could be in the line of fire, and he managed to talk a few seconds with the ones he believed were in more danger; the Japanese were moving south, and he expected they were heading straight to Singapore.

Everyone expected more or less the same.    


"We shall declare war on Japan!" Winston booming voice cut through his reverie, already going straight to the door. "Right now!"

England's legs finally gave in, he sat in the empty chair, his hands trembling as he covered his face with them; he told himself he was not worried, he was not worried about the damned brat, he wasn't. He was just shocked for the sudden turn of events, that it was just the adrenaline and an empty stomach making him so woozy, so out of it; he moved sluggishly, patting himself until he found the practically crushed pack of cigarettes. His sloppy fingers plucked one that was half smoked already, absent mindlessly wondering when rationing had become an every day endeavor and he had learned to not waste things, not that he was a big spender before the war, nevertheless. 

Hovering on the edge of his awareness as he was, he barely could hear Winant muttering 'good God' as he followed the Prime Minister out of the room, no doubt trying to reason with the man. 

"Mr. Churchill!" The other said with an unusual assertive tone, England perking up at the sound of it. "You can't declare war based on a radio announcement!"

England let his half-smoked, unlit cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth as he turned around, watching the scene with a sort of detachment that it only came from not really accepting the truth. His mind finally snapping out of the thousand 'what ifs' swirling around his head and he stood up, adjusting his uniform, waiting for the American Ambassador to step on his game, so to speak.

"Then what shall I do?" Winston stopped, looking impatient, his face pinched into a quizzical frown, but his eyes were saying that he won't wait much for an answer. "What is your plan of action?"

As a tense silence fell in the room, he almost felt sorry for Winant; contrary to the rule, the American Ambassador was almost painfully shy, he was charming yes, but lacked the overconfidence that the rest of America's population seemed to have. This often translated in him having to recur to his fumbling boyish charisma, the one that had half of England's people infatuated with him, using it in compensation of his lack of way with words; the man half-smiled then, which seemed to placate Winston somehow, Harriman and Thompson looking equally subdued as well.

"I shall call the President." Winant finally resolved and Winston's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

England finally turned away, looking for his matches to lit up his cigarette; at the very least, the man won't make a fool of himself, or to be more precise, he won't make a fool of himself without Roosevelt's approval. 

"And I shall speak with him too." The Prime Minister added, taking Winant by the elbow as they marched toward the office, followed by Thompson and Harriman.

He inhaled sharply, watching the gray smoke curling in the air with a half-lidded gaze, green eyes dull with heavy thoughts; the only question that kept floating in his mind eye was about certain blond, blue-eyed fool. America... What would this mean for them? Things were worse than ever, the lend-lease was a joke to him, and his pride was still wounded at the look of pure contempt the prat had, the resentment still so clear in his unwavering gaze, something that made England want nothing but punching him straight in the face, international relation be damned. 

He knew America had always resented Europe for treating him like an ignorant, dumb child and a part of him found the irony beautiful, that their own European ignorant, dumb child was currently letting his leader to gallop rampant as well as allowing him to run them into the ground and beyond. He sighed, stubbing his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, his mind whispering unhelpfully that it wasn't Europe who America resented, that it wasn't Europe who had been condescending and cold and an utter twat, right up until Germany decided it was a good idea letting Hitler rule his country and the bombings had started.

 It  was England.

And now, America will enter the war.

"- Are quite alright Lord Kirkland?" An aide, a worn-out man that without a doubt was one of his people, judging by the briskly sort of look and the sympathetic glint on his eyes as he made his inquiry; his voice was kind though, kind enough as the time and urgency allowed him to be. "Are you feeling well?"

"Of course, lad." He lied easily, because what else could he say? "Where did the Prime Minister run of to? I need to speak with him promptly."

Indeed, while he followed the aide he couldn't help but think that there were things better left off unsaid; like how he was thinking he didn't want to admit that he was both horrified and utterly glad, that Japan was a bloody wanker, that he was going to be rescued. He couldn't quite believe that the same brash git that once upon a time, held the heart of the British Empire in his dirty, undeserving hands was now lying unconscious, his mind probably not even catching up with what just happened, not yet anyway.

Pearl Harbor was attacked.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Winston looked like he would have a heart attack any moment now; his eyes were bright, almost feverish so and he seemed to have been over alert for such a long time, everyone was like that nowadays, sleep was elusive for those working to keep the krauts out of his island. But still, his Prime Minister looked exactly like a child on Christmas, down to the excitable exhaustion painted on his face.

Besides him, looking even worse but carrying himself with a lot less excitement was Harriman, ashen and hopeful and completely out of place; England never liked the American, preferring the quiet and awkward charm of Winant over the boisterous, blinding charisma the other had. The fact the man was the one in charge of the negotiations of the lend-lease just added to his general faults. 

Harriman was everything Winant will never be and he wasn't surprised that Old Winnie preferred him over the actual American Ambassador, hence his presence here; there was something between loud-mouthed, attractive Americans and stoic, gruff Englishmen that it seemed to just click regardless of time, he thought not without a bit of scorn.

"I just talked with the president of the United States of America." Winston stage whispered and England used the dramatic pause to sneak a glance to Thompson, who just shrugged and resolutely looked away from him, not a good sign in any case. "And he told me, we were in the same boat now."

There was relief yes, but England felt far away from the ecstatic cries of both Winant and Harriman, of the gruff smugness rolling out of Winston as he clapped and slapped Thompson's shoulders, his cigar hanging precariously from his mouth; the thoughts were swirling on his head as he only could think about his people, his island, the blitz, the Germans, the war...

"How is he?" 

He asked so softly, he doubted anyone could hear him over the celebratory shouts but the room suddenly fell silent, the people celebrating not a moment ago, frozen on their spot; No one asked who 'he' was, it was like everyone knew who was the only person he refused to even name (a rose without a name, Shakespeare said once and Arthur had laughed in the playwright's face, how wrong was he back then) Winston did look a bit guilty, like a child caught on been proud of hitting the ball all across the football field and just realizing he might had kicked one or two classmates in order to do so. 

Winant and Harriman exchanged a look and Thompson kept himself out of his sight; he wasn't mad at any of them, it would be pretty cynic of him if it he was. After all, he was glad he won't have to die or worse, surrender to Germany but at what prize? Nonetheless, he couldn't say he wanted to appear concerned over his former colony, not sober at least. He coughed, feeling rather awkward now, specially after seeing that bloody glint in his Prime Minister's eyes, the one that appeared when he was thinking in some devilish scheme.

"We are going to America." He said with such a casual air that made England narrow his eyes, seething. "You can ask about ah, Dear Alfred yourself then, my Lordship."

The cheek! The nerve! England gaped, his Prime Minister only called him by his factual tittle when he was been facetious and he would have blushed indignantly if he didn't feel so bloody sick all of a sudden, the prospect of seeing America on his most dire moment did not bode well with him at all. He wasn't over the lend-lease, he wasn't over the destructors, he wasn't over having to beg for help to the brat, bloody hell, he wasn't even over the _Revolutionary War;_ he might be a petty, miserable bastard but he was also a gentleman and not amount of one-sided, pink and elephant-sized everything hanging between them, will make him stomach what the other was not quite suggesting.

Furthermore, what about his colonies and allies? Hong Kong, Singapore and Malay were also attacked and he wouldn't be able to talk to them if he traveled; how would it look if he dropped everything to go to see that ungrateful brat? Was America really more important than those who were still by his side?

He stilled, turned his tensed shoulders as he squared his jaw, green eyes ablaze.

 

"No."

From time to time, England felt like reminding his government that he was not the twenty-something, baby-faced lad that he appeared to be; that he was far older and craftier than anyone in the room combined, that indeed they were talking to an immortal being whose experience surpassed theirs greatly. This moment was one of those, because as much as his Prime Minister found amusing the fact he was worried about America, the nation-person, he did not like the implication that it carried; he did not like that he was hinting how jolly good would be if England took advantage of the other's vulnerable state.

After all, everyone knew that involvement between countries were always beneficial, particularly in times of war; he had done it on the past, had gone as far as seducing fellow countries into liking, but he would never do it with America. He didn't do it while he was being bombed, half-starved and half crazed because of war, and he won't do it now.

His feelings toward the boy notwithstanding, of course. 

"You are clearly worried, My Lord." Winston insisted, relentless, and he could hear Winant sucking a breath. "Wouldn't be good for you to try to rekindle your relationship with Alfred now?"

The Prime Minister say this in a straight-faced fashion, he didn't look appalled at all, in fact he looked even more smug; he liked the man, he had been a good leader for his people in times of need but he indeed fit his nickname to a tee, he was like a bloody dog chasing after a rabbit. It was this useful yet infuriating quality that had kept his people from succumbing to despair, but now he was feeling a bit cornered, knowing the man won't stop until he was tucked into one of those awful planes, above the stretch of ocean ready to land in America. 

"I am but a Nation." He said in all seriousness, Winston had the gall to look as straight-faced as before while the other three paled, seemingly catching his train of thought -and his temper- better than the other. "I am my people but my people aren't I." He glared, the tension making the room frosty. "What I do or I do not do, will not in fact sway the voice of my people, much less America's."

Winston clicked his tongue and waved a hand like he was scolding a particularly stubborn, dense school boy; England needed a cup of tea badly, and maybe a cigarette or better yet, the strongest driest whiskey he could find, damn the rationing to smithereens and beyond. Instead he drummed his short, impeccable nails on the mahogany desk, glaring the rest of the room's occupants down, resisting the urge to curse his own Prime Minister, eve if it would be very satisfactory to give the man a bulldog's face to match his attitude and his imprudence.

"I'm not talking about The Nation, my Lordship." Winston continued ruthlessly."Don't you, Lord Arthur Kirkland, wants to know how is Alfred bearing this tragedy?" 

Ah, how low the blows became in such a short time; most of their leaders were aware that The Nations were also people, had thoughts and feelings that were theirs and not their inhabitants. That was where it turned dangerous, where he made a big mistake which left him heartbroken for over a century, and if he was honest with himself, heartbroken to even these days. 

"Alfred is dead,  _ sire _ ." England spatted, incensed. "He had been dead since 1776, dead and buried." 

It was not a secret how he had taken America's Independence, much less to the man in front of him who was a great historian; after he was elected and it was revealed to him who England was and what he was they spent long afternoons discussing the history of his land, along of the perception of the country turned man. In between of some astonishing discovering, Winston acquired some deep understanding of how England's mind worked, but that wasn't the only thing the other managed to unravel. 

Needless to say, the topic of America was something that was tiptoed around most of the time, until now at least.

"And mourned, longed for every day, no doubt." Winston drawled without missing a beat. "Perhaps it's time for the lordship to become acquainted with the nation-person left in his place." He tilted his head in mock curiosity. "You may find out him and Alfred are -daresay- very alike." 

England's glare intensified, venom ready to drip from his tongue and into his words when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, making him turn his face sharply; Winant looked incredibly uncomfortable but there was resolve shining deep within his gaze. He had forgotten he was in the room, he suddenly felt a rush of affection for the man since he reminded him of Canada, somehow; it was the quiet intensity often overlooked, the almost wallflower quality the man displayed despite of his role. He let the tension slip away from his shoulders, arranging his expression into a more neutral one though his green eyes were still haughty.

"We are all tired." Winant said after an awkward pause. "It would better to discuss this matters after food and tea are served, isn't that right?"

In a brilliant move, Winant actually glared at Harriman who just shrugged and smiled his blindingly charming smile, which no doubt he learned from the prat of a country he had as homeland; he easily stepped near Winston, who was looking like he was not done chewing his own nation into submission, but let the American stir him away from him regardless of it. 

"Let's find your lovely girls and wife to break out the news to them, shall we?" 

And with that Harriman marched Winston out of his sight, followed by a muted Thompson who was looking as uncomfortable as England felt; now he may accept the fact the American envoy wasn't such an insufferable twit after all, he thought begrudgingly.

England turned around, he wanted nothing more that grab his bow and go shooting something; it would be rather pleasing to attach Winston's picture into one of the targets, maybe America's too, just for kicks and giggles. Instead, he let the American Ambassador guided him back into the living room, and he sunk in one of the couches throwing his head back into the cushion, eyes fluttering close; he was so bloody tired. 

Winston was a good man, he was fiercely loyal and would have fought the krauts himself single-handedly if he could, but he just didn't understand how deep the wounds of the past were, no one but the nations of the world did; for him it was... He sighed inwardly, beautiful eyes staring at him with such a longing, hands holding him and not letting him go... Then the blood, the fire, the dead... America-not his America, not anymore- standing over him with such a pity in his eyes, muttering how 'big' he used to be. 

The same pity with what he stared at him, the same expression of humorless mirth as he told him 'anything short of war' while he watched him crumble little by little.

Something cold was pressed against his hand and he opened his eyes, finding a glass of whiskey and a gentle, fatherly gaze peering at him; Winant sat beside him, eyes far away and England waited for the man to gather his thoughts, as he always did when there was something important to say. 

"America." A pause, another stolen look and he felt grateful the man didn't use his country human name. "He collapsed and was carried into a room, The President wasn't there and no one knew what was going on for a time until the attack was made public." England nodded, the numbness taking over his heart. "They put two and two together... And after a doctor checked his wound and dimmed it non fatal -for human standards at least- He fell into a deep slumber."

England gulped his glass in one swift movement, his nerves going high wire again; it wasn't like the other nation didn't suffer from battle's wounds before, after all they always fought their own wars but it was different when another country attacked your soil and killed innocent citizens. He didn't know how many of America's people died, but having into account it was an ambush, the numbers of deceased will be far more than he was comfortable thinking about; it was the damage to their people and not their land what affected countries the most. 

He remembered clearly the first time it happened to him, how confused and hopeless he felt as the pain wrecked his body for days; he had lay in the middle of a forest, feverish, hungry and so utterly alone, with not one to come to his aid. America had his people to take care of him, so he forced himself to not felt sympathetic; he crushed the urge to call the younger nation's president and demand to be informed of his progress every hour or so. 

America wasn't his to worried about.

 

He relinquished that right two hundred and forty one years ago.

"He hasn't awaken since then..." Winant turned around, his face showing how he was debating with himself about revealing the following piece of information. "Between collapsing and going to sleep, there was a moment in where he was feverish and in shock..."

England sighed, playing with his empty glass touching the edges with wet fingers; he itched for another cigarette, but he already smoke his daily quota and it was uncertain when he would have the chance to get another pack. He studiously avoided Winant's patient gaze on him, preferring to look down at the polished floor, he didn't want to listen any longer; he wanted America to intervene in this conflict for such a long time but he didn't want the blond to suffer through something like this and to be honest, he not longer knew what he wanted from him. 

"Lord Kirkland..." Winant said as he looked away. "The only thing America muttered to everyone that could hear him was your name."

The glass slipped from his hand, green eyes widened a fraction but he didn't move, not even as he felt himself chocking on his own breath; the sound of the glass shattering in the floor was deafening, and he watched the pieces scattering around the room, skidding in the soft surface and colliding on the furniture that littered it. Once again, the world was simultaneously speeding and slowing down around him, and he clutched the arms of the couch, feeling nauseous; he bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, turning his schooled eyes to the man, expecting to see a triumphant expression or even a smug one like Winston was wearing not long ago. 

Instead he found a concerned gaze, sadness and hopeless etching around the edges of it.

"Not 'England' but Arthur." He continued. "No one knew who 'Arthur' was, not even the President, until I told him that was your human name."

England grimaced, he wanted to laugh but he knew he will be end up chocking instead; he stood up, walking toward the huge windows as he looked outside. The country side was quiet, too quiet which unnerved him without fault; war wasn't supposed to be this tranquil, no matter how close or far it was. Perhaps it was because he felt it anyways -on his bones, on his tightening chest, with every unshod tear he withhold- completely opposing the serenity of the place.

 

To him, nothing made sense anymore.

He leaned against the glass pane, his hand creating a moist print on it, he didn't even notice he was running a cold sweat.

Suddenly, the images came undone, unrestrained, with suffocating clarity; America blue eyes clouded with the shocking pain, the half-shout half sob leaving his mouth as his knee buckled under his own weight, falling with a deafening thud on the hard ground. The blood sipping through his clothes, pooling underneath him, people rushing to his help, shouting for a medic, for someone who could help him; his half conscious form being carried away to a quiet room, panicked glances all around. 

And then, his voice.

Broken, vulnerable, hopeless, scared.

His name called from America's lips, begging like when he was little.

Pained like when he skinned his knee, or broke his leg climbing a three.

Longing, like when they didn't see each other for a long time.

"Arthur."

England jumped, a hand on his chest; Winant was hovering around him, looking both puzzled and uncomfortable, something warm had slipped down his cheeks and he blinked surprised of finding his fingertips wet after he touched them. There was regret in the American Ambassador's expression, but instead of words he offered a handkerchief, clean but worn out. He accepted it with silent embarrassment, wondering how the git was able to still make him cry, thousands of miles away and still causing him such a grief.

"I thought..." The man said softly. "That  _ you _ ought to know this, not Mr. Churchill." England blinked, a bit shocked about the revelation. "This is something it shall remain between you two."

He nodded, trying to not let his emotion overwhelm him again; at the very least, someone had the right set of mind in all this madness. 

"My word is still final, Ambassador." England said with a stubborn set of jaw. "I can't go to America."

Winant didn't looked defeated, neither he looked incredulous; England pushed the piece of fabric back into his hands and the man smiled, albeit a bit ruefully.

"If you wish so, Lord Kirkland."


	2. Chapter 2

 

_ (It became my reason to breathe) _

 

**_.02 _ **

Morning found England waking up suddenly, Winston blustering outside his room, shouting at everyone who crossed his path; he rolled into his stomach, he didn't know when he fell asleep, he didn't sleep much these days and when he did, it was in fitful spells plagued with nightmares. He sighed into the clean sheets, today his body ached and along with the physical pain there was a smudge of emotional turmoil too; the wounds of the last blitz were still healing, ugly scarring leaving painful paths all over his back.

News of the attacks came at lightening speed though England didn't need them to know something went horribly wrong; the phantom pain running through his body was enough forewarning for what happened yesterday.

Hong Kong was taken.

And he...

He couldn't do a thing.

England put a hand over his chest, green eyes dull, and then he remembered; a warm winter, lily-white, soft hands through his hair, not a quite smile, almost painted in a porcelain face, the whisper of a kiss and the sound of shuffling feet muted by hardwood floors.

He...

Once upon a time... 

Was in love with Japan.

It wasn't a secret to anyone, Japan was perhaps, the one who he really thought could mend the pieces of him that America left. Unfortunately it wasn't the case, and now the other was having his revenge by attacking, taking nation-people who were dear to England's heart away from him, joining a war he had little to do with it and trampling over the Pacific just like Germany was doing through Europe.

He stared at his night table, his sleep addled mind trying to make up the images dancing on his head.

Even so...

He still dreamed about America.

It wasn't a pleasant dream.

There were back in London, back in Downing Street or to be more precise, back into the bunker annex next to the Prime Minister's Residence; while they weren't allowed to sleep in the building in case of another blitz, they still used it as center of operation.

He sat in his bed, throwing the bedsheets away from him; it was a chilly December, gray and gloomy just like his general disposition, making him shiver as he put his bare feet on the floor. He dragged himself into the bathroom, wishing for a lukewarm tread of murky water that would be enough to clean himself; he showered and shaved quickly, dressing in his less threadbare uniform before leaving the room only to bump into Eden, who looked at him with the sort of gaze that only a man with an impossible task could wear.

"I see you hear about Winston and that crazy idea of his." Eden said with a haughty look that made England almost smile in sympathy. "God gracious, that man!, sometimes I doubt he is has an ounce of British blood on him at all!"

He opened his mouth to agree, but then again he didn't want the other to know that either way he was not going to join the Prime Minister in his trip, not now not ever; the less people that knew about his decision, the less he would have to be very rude toward to. As sensing his discomfort, Eden turned to throw him a sideway look; England cursed the sharp intuition all his politicians seemed to have, they were all like bloodhounds, he could swear they just were able to smell weakness. Luckily for him, an aide appeared from nowhere, a paper clutched in his hand, urgency reflected in his tired eyes.

"Lord Kirkland." The man said loud enough for both of them to stop, England gestured at Eden to continued to deal with his own headache, the man hesitated for a moment but then he nodded, walking down the hall with the same business-like pace. "Lord Hallifax is in the phone..." The aide leaned a bit, cupping his mouth with his hand as keeping the words only for their ears. "It's about the PM trip to Washington."

 He nodded tersely as he followed the aide to a private room; the fact that the newly appointed British ambassador was skipping a few links in the chain of command, could only mean Roosevelt didn't receive the news about the impromptu visit with open arms, and that was England's duty to deal with the aftermath of telling Winston the news. Rubbing his forehead as he welcomed his usual morning headache, he pinched the bridge of his nose and thanked the other man with a thin smile before dismissing him, taking the phone and locking the door behind him.

"I'm sorry." England said not only disregarding the common niceties, but with such a long suffering tone that he was welcomed with a hearty chuckle. "He is like a child on his impatience to see the president."

Winston didn't shut up after their little chat, he didn't stop questioning him about his refusal, poking and prodding, until England started chanting ominous sounding words, sending everyone running for the hills; he didn't stop planning his trip either, and even if it was just the morning after, the permits were already on their way to be cleared, which meant he only have a couple of days more to convince everyone that he really couldn't take the plane to America.

_ "So I had been told." _ It was Lord Hallifax with a what-could-you-do voice, England could see him shrugging nonchalantly, picking invisible dust from his well-tailored suit.  _ "As you may suspect is ill-advised for Churchill to come to Washington right now, but it's not like we can do something about it."  _

He sighed somewhat relieved, knowing that Morrow and Lord Hallifax were already warning Roosevelt about the tornado that was his Prime Minister, not that the President didn't know already; the poor man was probably the only person aside of Winston's wife that had to suffer through his constant whinging almost daily, which was not something pleasant.

The sound of the static, or rather the silence through the receiver made him snap out of his inner musings, it wasn't like his ambassador to waste such a precious resource to just go into speechless spells. The pause stretched to an almost awkward degree, and England knew the real reason behind this private call will make its appearance very soon; he braced himself for what the other was commended to tell him, which, judging for the time it was taking the usual eloquent man to gather his wits, was not something he wanted to hear. 

"Out with it!" He said in snappish tone he regretted instantly. "You didn't call me just to ask for our dear Primer Minister, yes?"

He sighed loudly, tapping his foot impatiently. He did not longer know what he hated more of this situation; people questioning his decisions and throwing his past, his insecurities around, exposing him in order to bend his will, or everyone tip toeing around him to not hurt his pride more than it already was. Both options were useless, he was nothing but stubborn and not amount of sweet talking or threats will make him change his mind.

_ "Indeed..."  _ Lord Hallifax said, still reluctant. _ "Lord Kirkland... Roosevelt wants to see you." _

England blinked, an inexplicable fear crawling inside him; what could the President of the United States of America wanted him for? His mind immediately when to the daft boy, did he get worse? It was unusual but not impossible for a country to get really sick after an attack; first timers had a tough time recuperating but America was such a big, buff lad that it seemed very far-fetched that he would become critical, not after his wounds were tended. Then again, if he woke up already and he is running around, or god forbid, flying around in that plane of his and upsetting his wounds it was more than likely that he could have some sort of relapse.

"What? See me? What for?"

His voice was a mere whisper, trembling and battered, soaked with worry; he cursed inwardly, and reminded himself he didn't care, he will never care, not now, not ever. America, after his petty help and his condescending sneers could go to hell and stay there, he was not worried, damned it all. 

_ "He has questions, about America..."  _ Lord Hallifax said slowly, his usual nonchalance gone. _ "He is still sleeping and he is getting worried... We thought that you, perhaps..."  _

Bloody hell no.

He felt his blood boiling, and he actually have to stop himself from hurling the receiver all the way across the room; had the world gone mad? What was with everyone surrounding him being tits over arse over the fool? Why they insisted into pushing him into a role he was never going to play again? He resented it, he resented that his own people were unable to understand his reasons, bending to the will of their former colony just because now, now after three years and Japan stabbing him in the back America was willing to lend a real, tangible hand.

"... I can't."

His voice was tight, but the fury and the hurt sipped through it, soaking it; Didn't they have any pride left? Were they really willing to sell him off in order to get what they wanted? Were they really hoping for America to be Britain's savior? What they were trying to do by him going to play nurse to the prat? Indebted to him? Buy him? Use him? He felt something inside him hardening.

America and his boss, every single one of the people in his government and his own could go and fuck themselves. 

_ "Arthur..." _

Not only that, they also have taken to treat him like a stubborn child, coddling him and all but scolding him because he refuse to play like they wanted to; he knew what was going on here, it wasn't because of the goodness of their hearts they were doing this -no- it was because they all were hoping he soften enough around the boy to let out things he had been suppressing for a long, long time. Things that he left unspoken for a reason and should not be confessed in times of war, not when the not so metaphorical sword of Damocles was kissing the nape of his neck, not when his hopelessness was so fresh still... Not... Ever, if he was honest with himself.

And there was this other little, insignificant thing about being fed up of rejection, England thought with a bit of a sardonic flair.

"Please, tell him to contact any other nation..."

It was final. Not even the King himself will make him change his mind; even if it would kill him inside little by little not knowing how the boy was doing, even if all what his heart was screaming right now was to give in and go to America. It was the principle behind it, he may down right loath the other nation for everything that transpired between them in the pass century or so, but he will never use him like that; it was wrong.

_ "It's not the same! You were his caretaker, you know America better than anyone else."  _

England, paused then; letting the anger flood out of him. His mind conjured images of the past, feelings long time buried under the weight of bitterness, loneliness and a broken, unmended heart; his throat closed up, and he felt so tired, so drained. Even so, there was one thing he could muster to do before pulling the fingers out of that particularly festering, open wound. 

"And that is why I shouldn't reasume that position ever, if the President thinks that is the solution to this, he is sorely mistaken."

It was the truth, if they were to be allies - as this whole mess seemed to be shaping out to be - he couldn't, they couldn't revert to those old roles; England will be forced to look at America as an equal and not someone who needed to be treated like a child. After all, wasn't bending to this ridiculous whim of the nation wanting him to see him nothing but that? He bit his lip, that and he was more than certain that if he overstep the line this time, he won't be able to let the boy go. 

America truly didn't know what he was asking for, neither did that president of his.

_ "I beg your pardon? Lord Kirk-" _

__

England lowered the receiver, barely listening to the Ambassador's protest about the meaning behind his words; he won't explain that to anyone if he could, hell he was barely accepting the realization himself; was really like that? Was he really afraid of his feelings, suppressed for so long, would become too much for him to handle? He didn't know, and certainly he didn't want to find out.

"Please, I beg you... Tell the President I'm sorry but I can't travel."

England hung up before Lord Hallifax could make any comeback; he waited by the phone in case the other called again, but he didn't. He closed his eyes, pulling himself together before exiting the room, confusion, worry and many other emotions warring inside his mind and heart; why everyone was asking the same? America was feverish, out of it, in shock while he was crying for him, what good would do for him to see him? He was not longer a child, he was not longer his colony, he was not longer anything but a nuisance for him.

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit that he never quite corrected; he knew he should be asking other questions, but he refused to even let them form on his head, much less say them at loud, not to himself not to anyone. Even so, there was one thing that he couldn't vanquish from his mind, which ended up to be perhaps, the most revealing questions of all his self-doubting.

What good would do for England to see America?

He chuckled inwardly; he was weak, he was oh so weak. 

England didn't see himself as noble or unselfish, neither he was being stoic by willingly accepting the suffering this was bringing him; truth to be told, he didn't knew better, all his life was about unrequited feelings, was for other nations or people, his affections were never returned were they romantic or simply platonic. For all his poets and writers had written about, he knew nothing about love except it was a pain, and nothing will change that for him, so why even bother?

He was afraid though that seeing America like that, broken and hurt, claiming for him will make him forget everything, will make him yearn for something he not longer could have; it was simply pathetic, how after all this years, he still pinned for someone who never actually cared for him. 

Not as much as he did. 

He sighed, exiting the room and walking toward the meeting chamber, knowing he had more relevant things to think about than mourning about something so puerile; all is fair in love and war, but right now war was what he should be caring about.

Or so he tried to convince himself.

***

"That is quite enough." The King was a soft-spoken, stuttering man but he was still the King and his will was clear, so much that it made Winston shut up for the first time since they arrived. "The Nation and I will have a word in private."

England couldn't help but look both haughty and pleased, glancing at his Prime Minister with a prissy little smile playing on his lips; it was Tuesday, and the three of them were having their usual lunch to discuss wartime without any other prying set of ears near them. Of course, Winston had use the moment of frankness to assault him with impertinent questions about his reluctance of going with him to America; it had only be a day and England was already over the edge with the reality of the other nation entering the war, becoming an ally and, God forbid, an equal that he really didn't need his Prime Minister's insistence over the topic.

The trip was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, after much delay according to Winston, and they were just discussing what would be the moves following the Prime Minister's arrival to that country; to which Albert, bless his naive soul, asked if The Nation was going to join him in this endeavor. From that point onward, it became blatantly obvious he couldn't, and bloody hell, no one was going to make him; he watched the King looking increasingly flustered with every word his Prime Minister was saying, allegedly to shake England out of his 'stupor' until the man couldn't resist any longer.

"Of course, your highness." Winston said -looking too much like a petulant child sent out out of the classroom to pay a little visit to the principal- as he stood up, looking at England before bowing. "I will be in the living room."

England watched him go, not without some amount of smugness which was promptly trampled over with the confused and eager look the King was giving him; he studied George -no-  _ Albert  _ as the man studied him back, shoulders sagging after a moment of tension. They relationship was something of a wonder, and while he never paid much attention to him (and oh, how he felt guilty because of it) before the abdication crisis happened, they somehow had managed to become quite close in such a short period of time. 

"Arthur..."

He turned his face away, he did not want more pity or worse, sympathy; he was not a child, he was not a woman, and he was not as heartbroken as everyone thought he was -even if in reality, he was, perhaps even more than the rest suspected- he may not be in his top notch form but he definitely didn't need to be handled with silk gloves. He was tired, hungry and stretched thin; three years of having your land destroyed and your people killed did that to you, simply as that.

"Albert..."

And yet, his voice was pleading; was it so hard to understand he wished to remain here? he needed to be here, not only because of his island but because his colonies were targeted, attacked and invaded too; he refused to drop everything and go to the side of America when those who didn't betray him needed his help. 

That and the fact he can't and won't take any other burden aside of his own; obligations and unrequited feelings aside, he was not in his right mind to offer any sort of comfort to his new ally (and how that word stung, deep and raw) because himself was beyond those sentiments right now. 

"Do not lie to me, my dear country." The man said with such an earnest voice, his trademark stutter rearing its ugly head, and he was reminded of Albert as a child, never enough, never like David. "Please speak your mind."

He was the less favourite, yet it was the one who stepped in to fill the position his older brother left in order to follow his heart. He never resented neither of them, not Albert from lacking the charisma and leadership skills a King should had, not David for preferring happiness over power, even if it was in the arms of an  _ American _ divorcee. His shoulders sagged even more and he was slouching in his seat by now, staring down at his cup of tea, it was getting too cold to drink it properly.

"I can't see America." He admitted softly. "I can't let old Winston take advantage of that." He shook his head. "I can't leave the colonies alone, not after losing Hong Kong, not while they are still in danger too, I can't leave just because of him and..." He bit his lip. "I can't disappoint my people and I know that if I travel, I have to do what is right for us and that is letting myself to be manipulated into something I won't be able to withstand." 

England touched the corner of his eyes, afraid of finding tears. 

"Him... I... America..." He breathed in and out.  _ '" _ I will have to hurt him and I can't, even if I would want to."

Admitting just that was almost too painful to bear, his heart feeling both heavier and lighter after the words were spoken; he straightened his posture, ready to pat himself to find his cigarettes once again when one was offered to him. He looked up, watching Albert as he rolled one for him as well; he looked thoughtful, it wouldn't be too long before the other caught up with his real sentiments.

England lived far too long to even try to understand humanity never-ending change of view about inane topics like skin color and sexuality; Nations weren't considered people, not really, so discrimination didn't really affect them. They were beings that contains a whole country which was made of both males and females, of color and white and their entanglements were seeing as such, almost like a natural liaison. He couldn't even wrap his mind about the fact this whole war was about this so called 'ideologies' nevertheless, it will come as a bit of a shock for the King to know that the country he ruled, that the Great British Empire, or rather, its personification was perhaps, pinning for his former charge.

"Then don't let him." Albert said with a shadow of understanding."If you don't want your personal life to become a leverage then don't hide things from America."

England stiffened, heart clenching; was it really that easy? Was it really just that? He shook his head, gnawing at his lip. It only was so simple to say, he took a deep breath, letting the smoke mix heavily within his lungs as he narrowed his eyes, sight lost in the past. If they were people, if the were strangled friends, even if they were vague, distant relatives maybe it would be like that but they were more than that, and the implications of their actions ran at an abysmal depth. If he was to say to America that he was afraid his government will use them to manipulate each other, he then would have to explain why and somehow, he knew he will end up confessing to the git, something he avoided during the past half century and will keep avoiding even if it killed him slowly. 

"I can't."

He shook his head again, pressing his lip into a thin, tense line. He rubbed the bridge of his nose; it was too risky and it seemed too ill-timed as well. What if America thought it was just another political maneuver? What if he ultimately didn't believe his explanations.

He looked at the King, who was regarding him with a patient expression, his eyes were drawn to Albert's hands, which were playing with the ornate metal band adorning his ring finger. It was an unconscious gesture of course, but he couldn't help but find a secret meaning on it; he felt his change of heart occurring, he felt something unravel inside his chest as he drunk in the reality he will have to face, come what may -but even so- he refused to acknowledge it completely.

"Weren't you the one that told me Nations can't influence their fates?" The King spoke softly, but his gaze became more intense as the words left his mouth. "Then what harm would do for you to take care of whom you love?"

England visually flinched at that; thousands of thousand of metaphorical ants crawling under his skin. Yes, he was uncomfortable, and yes having his feelings spoken about so bluntly didn't make it any less awkward; did he truly love America? He blanched, about to stutter a petition for the monarch to forget every single word that was said during this mortifying conversation, a sort of irrational panic striking him right in his core. 

Before he could bolt out of the conversation, an strong hand landed over his and he was forced to look the King right in the eyes, something it was difficult for both of them, though for different reasons, Albert being a painfully shy, introvert man and England not wanting to be there.

"You have spent too many decades longing, my dear country. Too many years wanting to be selfish but always thinking on us before." He smiled tightly. "This is your chance to get what your want on your sake and not ours, so please by all means, take it."

It was nothing but the truth, and England felt the last of his resistance draining away from his body, being replaced by dread and uncertainty and maybe a little bit of hope and yearning. Albert patted his hand firmly, but didn't break eye contact with him, leaning against his chair and letting his words sink in.

He realized then, that not even once he thought in what he wanted to do and not what was he ought to do; he remembered Japan then - the irony - telling him stories about Samurais bound by duty and forced to choose between their hearts and their obligations. 

England ought to go to America, disregarding his colonies to secure his relationship with who it was his most beloved, stronger one, and the one who betrayed him.

But he won't.

England must go to America and make sure his people got the help they needed, no matter the cost.

But he won't. 

England should go to America and let his politicians pull the strings, let them manipulate him and the other country. 

But he won't.

Because England will stay home and Lord Arthur Kirkland will travel.

Because he will visit Alfred and not America.

And...

Because it was time for Arthur to get Alfred back.


	3. Chapter 3

**_ 03. _ **

 

_  (Have mercy on my heart.) _

 

America was, in short, even more beautiful than he remembered.

Quite frankly, it made England sick.

It was probably, just the bitterness of continuously seeing his own soil so utterly destroyed for a long time, or perhaps it had nothing to do with the land perse but of what he was reminded of when the plane landed; for nation-people like him, being in a foreigner territory, specially one which they used to have a deep connection with was bizarre, to say the least. 

Simply enough, it felt like using clothes that used to fit him perfectly; it was familiar, it had a sentimental value, he got used to them and even missed them, specially if he didn't wear them from time to time. But suddenly, not only they didn't fit him anymore, but it belonged now to someone else entirely and he just found out they were never his to begin with. 

England hated to admit that he longed for the familiar feeling in this land, but it seemed that the boy was adamant in erasing everything that could remind him of his tyrant; Boston looked nothing like it used to be, and Washington was something purely American. He couldn't help but felt the pang in his heart at being erased completely from this ground -for the greatest good- nonetheless. 

The ride toward the White House was tense and dull, Winston looked still too smug at his presence and Lord Hallifax's curious gaze wasn't helping his mood either; after he confirmed he was traveling, Roosevelt insisted in seeing him and England, having not longer an excuse to avoid the President of the United States of America, didn't have any other option but agree, albeit reluctantly.

As for the rest of the occupants of the car, he refused to even acknowledge the topic with them, specially with his Prime Minister who was already counting with his actions to improve the bond between the British Empire and The United States of America; he had no idea what the man was thinking, but it seemed the Winston was somehow under the impression that England suddenly went from utterly bitter and heartbroken to have a leverage over the situation; he snorted inwardly, he may be here and he may want to see America, but as far as politics went, he hadn't change his mind at all, and he won't let his Prime Minister try to guilty trip him into something he didn't want to do.

"My Lordship." 

Churchill boisterous voice rung shrilly in the otherwise silent car, but England ignored him, practically pressing his nose in the window like an over excited child in a school trip. He of course was far from that sentiment, but if acting bratty will save him from the Prime Minister, so be it. 

"Lord Kirkland."

He watched by the corner of his eye how Churchill became more and more flustered by the lack of attention he was receiving, and judging by Lord Hallifax's expression the man probably was a little bit too liquored up which mean his already short fuse was even shorter, a trait that both of them shared and that caused great pains to everyone surrounding them.

Therefore...

Something was bound to explode.

"You can act like a child all you bloody want, Arthur." Came Winston's demanding drawl. "But you are seeing the President of the United States and it will be of high importance that you remain on your best behavior."

And it seemed like it was Arthur's turn to be that something.

Green eyes flashed dangerously toward both men, hands fisted in his military green pants, as always Winston's gall never left him but Lord Hallifax was looking like he wanted anything but to be there.

"And what was that supposed to be, pry tell Minister?" He drawled in a equally haughty voice, looking at the man in the eye. "Am I supposed to bend down and take if that is what Mr. Roosevelt wishes?

Winston's eyes snapped open at this, his face taking a lovely purple shade as he sputtered nonsenses, England felt a twisted pleasure of finally breaking the man's obnoxious nonchalance and shaped it into something more adequate, like shame for implying his beloved country should whore himself -literally or figuratively- if that was what it took to secure their shaky alliance with his former charge.

He stole a glance at Lord Hallifax, who was obviously torn between amusement and looking a little bit green around the gills; he was somehow glad that at least one of them was having some sort of fun with this conversation. 

"My country! I didn't mean-"

England didn't know how much will be able to keep the tough act though, his wounds reopened because of the rough trip to America, and while he was able to redress them when they landed, now he was feeling how the blood was soaking his dress uniform, no doubt because of him almost blowing a vein over impertinent Ministers. 

Before Winston could recover entirely, and counter attack with a tongue lashing of his own, England saw the opening and delivered the final blow.

"Listen to me,  _ lads _ ." England seethed, narrowing his eyes. "I was there when Rome fell, I was there when Russia fell, I was there when France fell, I was the one making Spain weep in fear and so help me God and the King, I will be the one beating Germany to a bloody pulp." 

The car fell silent, a sort of solemn air enveloping its occupants.

"I was here before America even existed and I will be here without him having to help me stand up against my enemy."

England's posture finally gave up, and he slouched, crumbling into his seat; both men looked at each other with worry written all over theirs faces, finally noticing the blood dripping from one of his sleeves and into the plush carpet.

 "Rest assure gentlemen, that not matter what, I will prevail."

***

They arrived at the White House in a sort of chastised mood, and England was left to his own devices for the time been; feeling completely exhausted after such a long trip and such a exasperating chat, he made use of the rather luxurious installations -and really, having clear, steadily warm water was enough of a luxury for him- and draw himself a long, long bath to get off all the grime and dry blood from every nook and cranny from his broken body. Part of him felt guilty, so many of his people were still suffering, were still rationing and were still wrecked by war and here he was, staring at a bar of soap like it was worth its weight in gold -and perhaps it did- back in his island. 

There was a soft knock in his door but he ignored it, closing his eyes and leaning against the cold porcelain, letting his mind wander for a while.

 

His heart ached as twice as the usual since he landed here.

Was he dying?

Or was he recovering?

He dried himself up, and step in the room just to see that someone, most likely a maid, was sent to get the table ready for the afternoon tea, and now the food was waiting for him. He was torn between getting dress and just enjoy the meal while sitting in only a towel but before his gentlemanly manners kicked in, there was another knock.

"I'm Dr. McIntire, Lord Kirkland."

Someone called out of the room and England recognized the last name as Roosevelt's personal physician. He frowned slightly, wondering if this was Lord Hallifax's doing; he looked at his battered back, thinking that it was for the best to get proper medical attention. Sighing, he opened the door without bothering on getting any clothing, walking toward the center of the room.

"Those are some nasty wounds you have, boy." The doctor said with a calm voice, neither detached not overly concerned, England shrugged even when he felt his cheeks getting warm. "Then again if one attack knocked Alfred out, I guess you're fairing quite well after three years." 

As far as unorthodox greetings went, this one wasn't so bad though it made England terribly self-conscious; the doctor wasn't really looking at him, he was looking at his wounds, and not doubt judging the level of malnutrition he was suffering from as well. 

"You Brits are really something else." He said while pulling things out of his bag. "For such a scrawny, spindly fella you sure are one hell of a fighter, isn't that so."

England let the Doctor work but didn't comment, he was actually too tired to even muster the strength to be angry at being called those things; some wounds were infected, others required stitches and, as it was explained to him, if it wasn't for the fact he wasn't human, he would have died from dysentery quite a while ago. 

He nodded politely, but otherwise he kept his stony silence about how this was the first time he actually had a doctor looking at his wounds; he was after all, a terribly privy person, and he wouldn't let his people know how bad he was faring. The Blitzkrieg was withstood behind closed doors in his particular residence, alone; he would always resurface after -ashen and ready to keel over- but never looking as bad as he felt.

"How is the boy doing?" He asked before he could help himself. "Ah- Not, that I want-"

There was a warm chuckle, and England turned his flustered face away from the grinning doctor, cursing how he was blushing from his naked chest to the tip of his ears; it was such an inane question and yet why he felt so exposed? He huffed, sneaking a peek over his shoulder.

"He's still out, we aren't sure why he hasn't wake up yet." The man said adjusting his glasses, the smile still in place though it was a strained one. "I think it just some sort of coping method."

England sobered up at this, thick brows knitting; he felt sick and he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with his current state, not the fact he was one attack away from falling apart. Daft boy, he was worried sick now because of him, even after all these years, even after all the heartache...

He caught himself thinking he still wished no harm would touch America, ever.

He knew the doctor was watching as the color drained from his face, watching how the emotions flicked in and out of his gaze but he didn't have the energy to school them anymore; he ran a pale hand over his face, letting his eyes closed for a moment before he composed himself.

"You are the Arthur don't you?" The doctor said as his sunny disposition diminished. "The one the boy kept screaming about?"

He glanced at the man with narrowed eyes; there was no judgment in the doctor's voice, just plain curiosity and maybe a bit of sympathy but the question sounded a bit impertinent on his ears. 

"And what if I am?"

He didn't mean to be so rude, or be so defiant even when he was ticked off by the sudden questioning; America was not a victim and he definitely was not a villain, or some whimsical being who was ignoring their precious little boy out of cruelty. Did no one understand that if it wasn't for this damned war they would have continued to be in barely speaking terms with each other? Did no one understand that the fact that America was attacked and injured didn't erase almost two hundred years of strained relations?

It was such a bad idea to come here, after all.

"Lord Kirkland..." The doctor said, catching his eyes and instead of contempt he found a softer, sadder look. "What I saw just now was a young man who didn't even flinch while I stitched him up without anesthesia but almost threw up when I told him Alfred hasn't been conscious for days." He cracked a tiny smile then. "That is enough to know where a man's heart lays."

Oh.

If it was possible for his face to catch fire, it would have done just that if the furious blush blossoming was any indicator of how flustered he felt; the amusement dancing in the doctor's eyes wasn't helping the situation at all. The man stood up, wiping his hands clean with a handkerchief and closing his bag, handling him the clean shirt he left lying around close; he walked over the door, sparing some words before taking his leaves.

"Welcome to America, Lord Kirkland. We are very happy to have you here."

***

He didn't have any time to gathered his wits since as soon as he stepped out of his room, he was taken by the elbow and guided toward the Oval Room. England was ushered inside by a secretary, the president was standing with his back facing him; it was such strange thing to be alone with the man, specially after he all but ran away from his request.

"I get Winston found a way to drag you here?" Roosevelt asked with a amused tone, though it had no mockery on it. "I'm truly sorry."

He walked over the president, offering a hand to shake; the man blinked, but quickly recovered and took it with a firm, strong hold. England moved to the windows, he wanted to rest but it was better to get this conversation out of his system before any attempt to sleep.

"You look better Lord Kirkland." The President said after a pause and England didn't even question how fast the news traveled around the presidential residence, he nodded stiffly and the President's expression turned unsure "... I apologize, Mr.Churchill told me you aren't very fond of human names, would you rather be called England?"

It was England's turn to look confused, so his Prime Minister was repenting from his early actions? He highly doubted it, the man wasn't exactly the type to condone his own doings, either way it wasn't the time or place to analyze his maneuvers, as odd as they were. 

"No, Arthur is fine."

Another pause, in which they both gathered his thoughts, the air between them wasn't exactly awkward but it wasn't relaxed or familiar either. 

England took the time to observe the man, rumors had it he was gravely ill but it didn't look like it; while he wasn't exactly healthy and the medics dillydallying around were just another clue of how sick Roosevelt was, he didn't looked worse to wear, if anything he looked better than Arthur himself. 

it wasn't that particular notion though what made his posture less stiff and he moved to stare out of the window, shoulders relaxing a fraction. He knew the man had tried for years to send a more tangible help line, but democracy was dictated by the people and not by its ruler so as long as the average Joe didn't want to join the war, and the Parliament listen to these claims the president had his hands tied. 

But as they said, the thought was what it counted, and in this particular case, it was the thought that deserved at least a little bit of lenience. 

That, and he was positively sure no one deserved to have Winston whinging in their ear for a prolonged period of time.

"I came here on my own free will though the intentions of my visit are completely different of what you may suspect." England said slowly, eyebrows coming together. "I trust Lord Hallifax gave you my message, sir?"

He didn't know why he felt the need to explain his sudden decision about coming to America; maybe it was his pride talking, or maybe it was something else entirely. Nevertheless, he will use the chance to make some things clear: he was not here to meddle in political affairs through his interactions with the boy, not he was here to play a role from where he was all but violently ripped off in the past. Granted, he wasn't even sure what he was doing here or if America will welcome his presence after all; offering his friendship seemed too rushed but he knew he couldn't go back to act as he used to -before and after the revolution- if he wanted things to progress between them.

Either way, he will play by his own rules and the rest will have to follow or desist. 

"Oh yes, he did." Roosevelt blinked but soon enough his surprise turned into a genial expression. "I believe his exact words were 'Arthur is not coming because he is a stubborn twat' ."

England flushed, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

As much as he wanted to claim his ambassador was not capable of that sort of words, he truly believed and wouldn't put past Lord Hallifax and its completely devil-may-care attitude to have said just that to the man in front of him. It was still mortifying and a bit upsetting that his own ambassador was unable to see beyond of what everyone thought was just a temper tantrum.

"I-I" He stuttered. "Nothing of the sort" He shook his head, face suddenly somber. "America is his own... And that's why I refused... " He looked at the president. "I shall not longer act like a surrogate guardian to him."

A hand landed heavily in his shoulder, making him snap out of his impromptu rant; he clamped his mouth shut suddenly embarrassed by his lack of control and his display of emotion; So much for the English's mythical nerves of steel. 

He swallowed, feeling very uncomfortable and it was odd, how such a liberating words still tasted stale on his mouth and how much it still pained him to accept the fact America didn't need him, hadn't need him, years and decades since then. Part of him knew that, a big reason of why he didn't want to travel to America was making that notion -which he denied in some sort of childish stupor- real; he deluded himself into thinking it wasn't true but it was time to face it and even now, it felt bloody awful.

America didn't need him.

Perhaps, he never really did.

Roosevelt caught his eyes and England held his gaze, regaining some of his stiff lip as everything sunk in for the better; yes, his former charge didn't need a guardian, didn't need a older brother, didn't need a father. 

But right now, he needed an ally.

And even, a friend.

"I take you were informed of what happened."

England nodded, looking away.

His own reaction days ago seemed so alien to him now, how much he tried to shut down his emotions and still ended up failing miserably; even if he remained undisturbed in appearance, the whirlwind of things he was feeling inwardly almost overwhelmed him at times. Queen Victoria had said to him once - after Albert's passing - that big dramatics were for those who didn't truly felt it, that sadness was wore on the inside and not at the outside; after all of what had happened, he now -perhaps truly- understood the meaning of her words, as the hole in his heart started to feel too much like mourning.

For what or whom, he wasn't even sure. 

"I didn't knew what to do, or if Alfred was going to be fine." The president admitted softly. "He is like a son to me... It really pained me to see him in such a state." He continued. "But what worries me more is not his body but his heart."

To this, he blinked, confusion downed upon him.

As much as he wanted to think America was suffering from some sort of heartache -oh the delicious irony in such a insignificant thing- and as much as he didn't want to think about it, because while divine justice was something beautiful, his conflicting emotions will be the dead of him if really the idiot had fallen not only for the wrong person, but for other person altogether.

He highly doubted it that was the reason the President was speaking of because even if America was being his usual self-and everything that that may imply- he wouldn't get so worked up over something that innocuous, not so much that even his boss would noticed. England sneaked a look at Roosevelt, who was looking at him with an intense expression, like he was judging his reaction; it seemed confusion was the right one or perhaps the man was waiting for contempt of even... Scorn. 

Was in either denial or insight, he narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms with a quizzical frown, his gaze now directed to the man in question.

"He is losing faith in the rest of the world, and wants nothing but keep living in this bubble he created for himself." Roosevelt looked away, subdued and worried."I know is too much to ask but..." He said softly, almost pleadingly. "He just wants to see you."

When he turned to face England again, the President's gaze was knowing, even a little bit accusing and he felt the tale-tell flustered blush wanting to come out; yes, he knew the feeling, and yes Roosevelt was probably thinking in the same time period in where Arthur decided that if he was going to be an island nation, it may well be in all the possible senses. 

One question remained unanswered though: What anything of that -his turbulent, isolated past included- has to do with their non-existent relationship?

He sighed defeated, as much as he wanted to refuse, it was ultimately useless, since England didn't need any convincing, though it would be under his own terms and while Roosevelt's motive seemed a bit more pure that those of his Prime Minister, they still had more or less the same ending; He was being suggested - very strongly - to once again play surrogate guardian to America.

Something, he was not willing to do.

"I don't pretend to understand you two." The president said with a small smile. "I don't pretend to understand the meaning of history for you two... And I definitely don't know what it feels like." He said with a sort of hopeless air. "But I do believe your bond with America was and is, stronger than you let us humans know, for better or worse."

He moved from the window and into Roosevelt's vision, pulling the chair from his desk, sitting and leaning back, his expression mild but with his temper lurking just beneath the surface; Roosevelt opened his mouth to continue with his pledge but Arthur silenced him with a gesture of him hand.

"Indeed, Sir." He said undeterred. "You don't know." He continued as he tilted his head slightly. "No one knows, and no one of you will ever know what it does feels like." He leaning over. " No human or nation can." 

Even on his own ears, England's voice was just a tired whisper reflected in a timeless gaze. 

Roosevelt was silent, but his posture was stiff, like it just downed upon him England was indeed centuries old; that he had done and said the worst of the worst and that no matter how he saw it, the relationship between Alfred and him was far more complex than any human could understand.

"Because for humanity, history is nothing but the past but for countries is our lives and all that touched us deeply -raw- remains like an open wound forever." He licked his lips."I buried Alfred the day he pointed a gun at me and told me I was useless to him." 

The President looked a bit disturbed but England's emotions must also had been so evident on his face that the man, just shook his head, at lost with the situation in his hands. 

"And perhaps I did buried America alive." He admitted softly gaining the widen eyes of his companion. "Or perhaps Alfred died oh so long ago." England continued and his voice was firm now. "But that..."

A pause.

"That is for me to know and for the rest of the world to stay away."

He relaxed his posture then, looking at the man with a softer, sadder expression.

"I will see America." He said making the President to nod with a solemn air. "With the condition we are left to our own devises."

Roosevelt hesitated for a moment but then nodded his agreement, in return England lowered his eyes then and gave the man a nod; after that the conversation drifted toward safer but not more pleasant topics like the war, his people morale and their opinion about America joining their side. He was as honest as he was known to be, not disguising the fact that while most of Britain was hopeful about America's aid, there was a faction that it was equally wary about it; Roosevelt looked pensive for a long time, finally smiling and offering a hand to him, his eyes held some deep knowledge, like he had just had an epiphany, and for some reason it made his insides squirm.

"Whatever you decide to do Arthur, nonetheless we are now allies."

He stared at him with a dubious expression but thanked the president for his kind words, and excused himself for the evening, leaving the man to brood a bit more.

He walked around the White House aimlessly for a while, finding the beautiful rose garden tucked in one of the corner of the building; it was such a breathtaking sight after all the devastation he had seen the past three years, that he couldn't help but simply stare, amazed. He brushed his fingertips over the soft petals, each color represented a different emotion that you may want to convey; yellow for friendship, green for a quick recovery, white for purity, pink was admiration and so on... He wondered if America would even catch the meaning aside of the red one, he wonder if the other nation even remember those lessons, oh so long ago.

He pulled his hand away, it really didn't matter it's not like he will do it.

He was too much of a coward, too much of an hypocrite that building his courage to face the boy had proven to be this taxing for his already frazzled nerves, then how he could even entertain the idea of bring him flowers? He leaned against the closed door, what was he doing here again? Hiding... Mourning... Stalling... 

He didn't even know, to this point.

A racket inside called his attention, and he opened the door alarmed; was it another attack? Was the pacific targeted again?

"He woke up!" A secretary all but yelled. "Alfred is awake, thanks God!"

England didn't let himself think, he demanded the woman to take him where America was and when questioned who was he, and what clearance he had to demand such a thing, he snapped at her; he clenched his fist, glaring at her.

 

"I'm Lord Arthur Kirkland!" He hissed. "Wasn't the boy asking for me?!"

The woman paled then, babbling all the way up to one of the most secluded rooms; talking how glad everyone will be that someone had found the person Alfred was calling so desperately for, the secretary shook her head with a hopeless look, stopping just outside a room that looked incredibly average.

"I was there when he collapsed." She said before England could thank her and enter. "He was so out of it, it scared everyone." She looked away, biting her lip. "Please, sir..." She said, peering at him. "Whatever it was the reason that pulled you two away... Don't hurt Alfred, he really needs you, Sir."

The secretary smiled at him sheepishly before turning on her heels leaving Arthur more than just flustered; He was starting to think that maybe, it was less of a political maneuver and more of people getting scared shitless and acting on desperation rather than cunning-ness. Was this why everyone was so desperate to get them to talk? He didn't let himself hope, it was poison that will kill him if he let himself be deluded by some random words and impressions. He was about to knock when the door opened softly, a familiar man wearing a coat closing it behind him; he recognized him immediately as the good doctor that tended his wounds after arriving.

"Lord Kirkland." The man said without certain amount of surprise. "What a nice surprise, please come in."

England froze in the spot, suddenly aware of what he did; did he just rushed toward the git's bed? Was he really going to see America? He backtracked, eyes narrowed as he adjusted his uniform tie.

Enough was enough.

He was here by his own will, he was here because he wanted to see America and at the very least it was time to admit it, even if it was just to himself. He remembered the man's words, the haunting phrase that kept repeating itself over and over in his head; he also remembered Albert's words, about not follow what he felt were obligations and for once, doing what he felt like doing. 

"Thank you, doctor." He said with a thin smile. "Do please see we aren't interrupted."

England nodded firmly, letting the man pass and opening the door to enter himself, not sure of what he was going to find there. America looked pale, exhausted and too young without his glasses; he closed the door quietly, barely disturbing him. He was reading, not a magazine or a comic book but an actual book, he couldn't make up the title from this distance but the other looked engrossed. 

Finally his boots made an squeaky sound and the blond looked up, book forgotten in his lap.

"You came."

England couldn't said anything, he just nodded, pulling an empty chair next to his bed; he laced his fingers in his lap, the temptation of touching America was too much, to make sure it was really him -awake but still sick- and not a figment of his imagination.

"How are you feeling, my Dear?"

The moniker was out of his mouth before he could even think about it and he cleared his throat, trying to not look as flustered as he felt; he scolded himself for falling so easy into it, but at the same time he knew he just couldn't treat America with any less fondness right now, even when it had being decades since the last time he did it. America widened his eyes, staring at him for a moment to then broke into a sincere smile, which turned into a fantastic grin; all the weariness seemed to vanish, and the other perked up, sitting straighter in his bed.

"Am I your 'Dear' again, old man?" America's grin turned into a soft, sweet smile and his blue eyes looked less pained, England turned his face away, he couldn't bear it and he chuckled inwardly at how painful it felt to be regarded with so much affection. "What happened to 'you bloody twat, America'?" 

England huffed, crossing his arms over his chest even when his cheeks were pinking, damn it his fair skin; he watched America looking back at him with an eager expression, he was nervous too, fidgeting with the bedsheets and adjusting the collar of his pajamas, biting his lip. This was the first time the often obnoxious blond was this quiet, which in turn, only made him even more anxious.

"Perhaps, you are." He drawled at least "What about it?"

He knew what it meant but he refused to admit that it was on purpose.

For nations, names were a way to acknowledge the humanity on them, a way of treat each other as something more than just a piece of land that they could destroy, claim, use and discard as they like; it implied they have an independent life from their role as countries, and it also implied, they were able to look pass their history to interact with each other without the looming burden of the past.

Until now 'America' and 'England' had an amicable yet strained relationship, while 'Alfred' and 'Arthur' were not in speaking terms with each other and for all he knew, he was dead to Alfred as dead as Alfred was for him.

But now...

Would things be different?

He watched as America shrugged, his expression faltering and a small, rueful smile appearing on his face; he ran a hang through his golden hair, grimacing when he noticed it was matted with sweat, wiping his hand on the cover; England sighed as well, relaxing his aloof posture into one that was closer to his real feelings.

"You haven't call me that since The Revolution."

His eyes widened a little, he thought the other nation didn't notice, that he didn't care he stopped treating him with familiarity, with fondness, that he stopped recognizing the person aside from the country. Before he could stop himself a tiny, affectionate smile that was still pained around the edges appeared on his face as he grinned at America.

There were unraveling inside his chest, the emotions repressed for so long.

And England didn't have the strength to stop them any longer.

America's expression was incredulous yet it held so much hope that it almost made him shiver, he was never that good into schooling his feelings, unlike him.

"Haven't I? I didn't notice."

It was meant to sound like a joke but it came out with more longing than he intended to, and it grew into something else as they looked at each other for what it seemed to be a long time; the tension shifted again, so many unspoken things making it heavier, thicker. 

Lord above, the boy was fine, he was there and he couldn't quite stop the relief rushing through his veins.

"You really came." America - _ Alfred _ \- said in such a tiny voice it made England's heart jump. "You really are here."

Alfred was too big, he was too young; his chest was covered in bandages, the thin fabric of his shirt rumpled in odd places because of it. He had grown since the last time he saw him, his arms were well defined and he could tell he had been training along with his boys; he had the body of an athlete, of a young, dashing soldier or like one of those ridiculous superheroes of his, blond, tanned, blue-eyed and so utterly gorgeous.

America was a powerful nation, looking like it too; unlike England who was pale, skinny and even shrunk a little, the war making him nothing but skin and bones, reducing his land to nothing but a mine test field.

England realized then that for him. Alfred was still the same sweet faced boy that tried to act tough even when his cheeks flushed out of pain and embarrassment. 

Nothing had changed.

And yet everything was so different.

America looked away and down, face obscured by his fringe, arms crossed in a attempt to not look so vulnerable; England wanted to hug him, to comfort him somehow but he stilled his resolve of of not letting himself act like the other was still a child. His feeling for Alfred were not longer brotherly -that much he had accepted- so it somehow felt wrong to pretend he was again the guardian he not longer felt like playing at.

"It looks like it going to rain." America said with his usual light voice, full of laughter but oddly wet around the edges. "Don't cha think so, Artie?"

England paused, blinking at the odd comment; but then, something crumbled inside his chest when the realization hit him. America also, had never called him by his human name since the Revolution; it was just how their mutual hurtful agreement went.

And then he understood, that all these years were about both of them pretending they didn't lost something precious back then; now, it was the time to try to amend that, even if it was just for them to become allies. 

England snorted, about to call the boy daft to school all the feeling threatening to overwhelm him. Then he saw America's arms trembling, the blond's shoulders shaking just slightly as he left the first tears track down his cheeks and into the blanket; after a moment, his initial shocked expression softened as something in his chest twisted, shifted and made him gasp quietly. The room stilled into silence, only his ragged breath and the boy's wet sniffles could be hear with sheer clarity. 

"You will be fine, Dear." England whispered at him, even when hopelessness pooled around his guts, weighing him down like lead, as he felt fiercely protective for all the right or wrong reasons. "We will be fine."

He ran his fingers idly through blond strands, until he felt the younger nation's breathing even out, sniffles being replaced by soft snores; he moved as little as possible without disturbing the sleeping blond, walking back to his chair as he grabbed the forgotten book left in the bed, prepared himself for a long evening of him watching Alfred sleep his frustrations away. He stared at America's relaxed face, and from the window on his room, he watched the perfect blue, cloudless sky went by. 

At the very least, that much England could promise to him.

**__ **

**Author's Note:**

> It took years to finish this, as I tried very hard to make this fic as historically accurate as possible without making it a history lesson, nevertheless is still deals a lot with historical facts, causes and consequences; so if you are here for a cute USUK fic very loosely based in a period of time you better don't even read. Also most of the dialogue in the first chapter is almost word to word of historical accounts with the added of one anthropomorphic country, so suspension of disbelief may be necessary.


End file.
